Excerpt:

The Remedies That Raised Us

It’s a miracle that midcentury children survived the home remedies and preventative measures our families swore by. In summer, mothers spread old quilts beneath the largest shade tree they could find and laid babies, toddlers, and anyone else in need of a “sun bath” right on top. Why these baths were conducted in the shade remains a mystery lost to time.

Come fall, on went the undershirts — and they did not come off again until May. Down South, September and even October can be warm enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, so perhaps we were meant to “sweat out” any troublemaking germs before they got a foothold. How an undershirt became the universal defense against all respiratory ailments is unknown unto this day. A remarkable garment indeed.

And then there was Fletcher’s Castoria, administered every Saturday night without fail. No child escaped it. Nor did anyone escape the slathering of Vicks VapoRub across the chest before bedtime, followed by a hot towel and then fifteen blankets — or however many could be piled on top — before being tucked in like a buttered biscuit.

But the humdinger of them all was the bourbon‑and‑rock‑candy cough syrup. A child with a “bad cough” was served a cocktail, literally, stirred until syrupy and then “down the hatch.” Being alcohol virgins, we winced and grimaced our way through the awful concoction. A few minutes later, the potion kicked in and the inevitable question floated through the room: “How do you feel? All better?” Of course we felt better. We were tipsy. And off to bed we wobbled, a good night’s sleep guaranteed.

Ice was the cure for everything else. I am convinced that a greenstick fracture would have been treated with ice. No matter the injury, the prescription was always the same: “Put ice on it and go back outside.”

Luden’s Cough Drops — especially the cherry ones — were our candy of choice. But nothing compares to the day Granny Mac became convinced that Lynda and I had eaten tiny shards of glass from a 7‑Up bottle that had exploded in the freezer. We had NOT eaten any such thing, but she was certain internal bleeding was imminent. The remedy? Raw potato slices. We dutifully chewed them, wondering how exactly potatoes were meant to save us from our imagined fate.

A sunburn earned a soak in strong tea or milk. Insect bites brought out the Calamine lotion, dabbed in every possible crevice and dotted across our faces — which were then marched into church. Off we went, pale twig girls with peach‑colored spots creating the effect of a very bad theatrical makeup application, looking for all the world as if we’d broken out in pastel measles.

How any of us survived these tender ministrations is a wonder. Yet here we are. If you could survive a childhood in the South, you can survive anything.